Wish I Were Here
by KissTheBoy7
Summary: Just when everything has begun settling down, just when everyone has become complacent, they realize that the rock they've all been anchored to all this time is slowly crumbling away to reveal the vulnerable man beneath. After all this time, Mark is unraveling; who, if anyone, will be there to hold him together? Warning: dark themes, self harm and slash. Eventual Mark/Roger Marker.
1. How Habits are Formed

**A/N: Hey anyone whose still bothering to read my shit… Or, you know, those of you who stumbled upon this. I've been writing this in my spare time in this huge notebook in my room and it's REALLY dark, just as a forewarning. It's going to be chaptered. Thirty five to be exact. And full of all those bad things like suicide and angst and mucho Mark abuse. I'm going to update when I damn well please. This is probably my favorite thing that I've ever, ever, ever posted or ever will. I'd really appreciate feedback. Alrighty then, here we go!**

Disclaimer: _RENT has never been mine, much as I loathe to admit it. By default, neither are Mark or Roger. Sadface._

**Chapter One: How Habits are Formed**

Mark's breathing was slow, calm; he slid the tip of the knife along the pale, almost translucent skin of his writs and several of the blue veins that were always so easy to see. His intense blue gaze followed the thin line of scarlet that trailed behind the glinting blade as his skin tore, stinging. The expression on his face was blank, brow slightly furrowed as he watched, and his hand was steady. The blood welling up from the new wound mesmerized him. He set the dirtied knife down in the sink before him and leaned heavily against the counter, holding his arm out in front of him so he could stare, transfixed.

When exactly had this become a habit? It couldn't have been so long ago that he had started; but then, the filmmaker mused, why were there so many scars? They crisscrossed his left arm, from the inside of his wrist to the crook of his elbow in various stages of healing. The oldest were fading, a light, shiny pink, while the newest were still scabbing over in ugly, dark ruby lines. The fresh cut still glistened, hot and painful, but Mark didn't register the pain. At least, not in the way that he was supposed to.

It wasn't normal; he shouldn't relish the stinging of cold metal slicing into his skin, the blood that belonged in his veins rushing to the surface. No one should. But this was bohemia, wasn't it? He smiled grimly at the thought.

Their group of friends was a bohemian one- they were all about freedom in their choices, being unorthodox, doing whatever the hell they felt like doing whenever they felt like doing it and not caring what anyone else thought. Mimi, the junkie, the stripper who loved her job. Roger with his guitar, never paying the bills even when he managed to scrape together some cash. Angel the drag queen and Collins the anarchist, both happily and flamboyantly together. Maureen with her protests and her fluid sexuality. Joanne, who chose this group of friends, this way of life, despite her higher calling. April with her heroin, who chose her own way out.

And then there was him. Mark. The geeky Jewish boy with the camera and the ability to blend effortlessly into the background. Cute, awkward, innocent _Marky_.

His lips tightened as he inhaled sharply through his nose, gripping his wrist with his other hand and squeezing. Crimson began to drip down his arm, sluggishly moving towards his fingers, and he sighed before letting go, eyes falling closed for a moment.

To be perfectly honest, he was looking for reasons lately. In the beginning- oh, God, was it really only a year ago? Maybe a few weeks more? It seemed like forever he'd been doing this- he could have told you the reasons behind every distinct slash and recall with perfect clarity the moment, the method he used to create it.

Roger wasn't talking to him? Slash, bleed, then clean it up and hide it beneath the sleeves of his sweaters with his roommate none the wiser, eternally grateful to himself and to his mother for picking a wardrobe virtually devoid of short sleeves. There was no reason for anyone to question it, to peek beneath the fabric and discover the gory evidence. Mimi had another relapse? Hello, bloody bandages smuggled out to the dumpster in the alley behind their building where Roger wouldn't see. Maureen and Joanne fighting, both of them bitching to him about the other; Roger screaming April's name in his sleep, shaking and sobbing in Mark's arms as he woke up in tangled sweaty sheets; Collins leaving again, leaving him alone with all of his needy, clingy friends who smothered him with their craving for friendship and support, leaving for another college job in another state, and Roger moving downstairs into Mimi's apartment.

Slash, bleed, watch it trickle out, one more for good measure…

Before he'd stolen Roger's old pocketknife, before this had become a regular thing, he'd had to make do with other means. The first time… He struggled to remember, but Mark was fairly certain that the first time he'd felt the urge to take something sharp to his wrist rather than letting his emotions fester, build up inside him like a tidal wave and wash out in stupid, ridiculous tears was when Roger had been drawn out of the loft for the first time in months by the sexy Latina living downstairs.

He'd been jealous, like a monster with fiery fingertips clawing its way into his chest, or perhaps out of it- why could this stranger do for his best friend what he, _Mark_, couldn't seem to no matter what painstaking lengths he went to?

_Alone in the silence of the loft, which was dark and cold and only slightly less cluttered and dirty than the alley outside, Mark still felt the need to restrict the tears burning behind his baby blue eyes. He had his dignity, God damn it. Slumped against the door he squeezed his eyes shut as hard as he could, barely breathing._

_Something in his pocket was jabbing him in the thigh. It took him several miserable, dizzy moments to realize it and when he did he fished it out, still fighting for the elusive emotionless he craved. He squinted as it lay in the middle of his palm, wondering what it could be. _

_The jagged teeth of his key shone dully in the minimal light, grim and tempting._

_For a couple of seconds, Mark just stared at the little silver instrument in his hand. Contemplating. A dark thought took root in his mind and wouldn't let go, despite the pathetic level of desperation that it implied in him. A flurry of protests formed in response, a defense mechanism._

_What if someone found out? Was it even safe, doing something like that with a _key? _Living in the city slums with four HIV positive friends, including of course the one that lived with him, occasionally even shared a bed with him when it got too cold for both of them- it was something to think about. It was probably dirty… But, suddenly, the urge was maddening. It was something he shouldn't do, something that he _knew_ Roger would kill him for even considering…_

_And yet…_

_He frowned to himself- what would Roger care? He was lovestruck- or lust struck- by some stripper downstairs. He wouldn't notice one little mark…_

_Marking up his mind, the introvert brought the sharpest part of the key- which was still terribly dull- to his bare wrist, pulling one sleeve up just enough to expose the albino-pale skin. The freezing metal was almost comforting when it should have been foreboding. It took his mind off of Roger in any case, off of the irrational sense of betrayal that he felt towards the guitarist, off of the weight of all of his friends' worries on his shoulders and the memories constantly swirling around his head, Scarsdale and the hospital and his mother's despairing wails echoing off of the inside of his skull. Mark couldn't for the life of him understand what exactly was making him upset at this very moment, upset at Roger and himself and the world, but either way-_

_He pressed down more firmly._

_The filmmaker licked his dry lips nervously. It wasn't biting down the way he had hoped and maybe, maybe this was a stupid idea… Tentatively, he dragged it almost like a saw in a horizontal line across his inner wrist. A satisfying albeit faint sting followed and left the skin pink and irritated._

_It was almost surreal. Every second was a thrill of adrenaline; was this what it felt like to shoot up, chase that high? Mark though that it might be the same sort of roller coaster feeling that Roger had been addicted to. His emotions were at their peak and he knew what he was doing, knew it was stupid and impulsive and God but it made him a hypocrite, but it felt so so good to have a distraction…_

_No one was going to find out anyways, right? Roger and Collins and Maureen, they wouldn't have a clue about one tiny, insignificant scratch._

_The thought of Roger made his eyes burn again, threatening salty tears, and he tensed before more forcefully dragging the key across his sensitive skin. Why the fuck was this affecting him so _much? _Old thoughts, from high school and his early days in the loft, floated uninvited into the forefront of his mind and he shuddered, swatting them futilely away. Again, again, again- he could see the thin layers of skin tearing away and it sickened him, at the same time bringing a strange, morbid thrill. Something forbidden to him, perhaps not in words, and he knew that any one of his friends would shit a brick if he ever so much as hinted at it._

_Fucking Roger. It always came down to him, didn't it? Mark didn't like to think too hard about why, about the tears that he'd shed that first night that April had come home with the rocket, a baggie of foreboding white powder in hand. He didn't want to think about the number of times he'd found himself with his roommate's stubbly, smirking face in the mind as he stroked himself. There were always too many fucking things in the way, and Mark wasn't _gay _anyways, and none of these emotions even existed._

_They didn't exist. They _shouldn't _exist. They could burn in hell._

_That girl downstairs with her sultry smile and her blue rubber pants… He'd seen the track marks on her arms, despite the fact that she could barely pass for sixteen, that she was probably just another runaway with good looks and daddy's stolen cash in her pocket who'd gotten in way over her head. And damn it if he was going to go through it all again, right when Roger had finally stopped shaking and sweating and vomiting, just when he thought that things were getting back to whatever normal was._

_It would be his secret. The jagged teeth bit into him, more layers ripping away in that inch long line, thick and turning splotchy red. It was starting to feel raw, actually burning, and the pain was all he could focus on. No more images of his best friend, the forlorn, bitter look on his face or the happier one, somehow more painful to see now, when he was prancing away with that little Latina on his arm. No more. Nothing left to plague him while he tried to just forget._

_He gasped as he drew blood, feeling the dull piece of metal finally break through to his delicate veins. It rose slowly to the surface in an irregular pattern of crimson. Mark forgot for a moment what he was doing, why he was doing this in the first place. His tears and his strange, unwanted jealousy dissipated as he stared curiously down at his newly marred wrist._

_Minutes passed and the filmmaker let out a shaky breath, blinking slowly as if waking from a trance. Those blue eyes widened as the realization came crashing down on him all at once, an avalanche to choke him, to send terror thrilling down his spine. What had he _done?_ Had he really, actually succumbed to that hopeless feeling, that desperation?_

_Yes. He had. He'd hurt himself, bled- if only just the little bit- for those stupid emotions, those stupid feelings that he wouldn't let himself cry over anymore._

_Fighting back the rising panic, fear of himself, fear of his own mind, Mark straightened out of his slump against the loft door and slowly stood, swallowing the lump in his throat trying to strangle him. An odd sort of calm descended as he stood, the skinny artist still clutching the key in his hand, and he walked to the bathroom in measured steps, kicking off his shoes as he went. He thrust his arm under the tap and allowed the unfiltered water to run over the wound, grabbing a bar of soap from the counter and lathering it under the gentle stream, rubbing the suds into the evidence of his derangement almost mechanically._

_The rock was beginning to crumble, but as long as he ignored the signs he could continue on as usual with no one the wiser- not even himself._

_Alright then- he'd cut himself. Just the once, and he'd never do it again. Mark dried off, nodding to himself as he justified it, and went to find his camera. He pushed the disturbing episode out of his mind as he prepared to go out and shoot some more film for the documentary that, like all the others, he knew would never be finished._

Never again. Right? The filmmaker chuckled darkly to himself at the very thought, opening his eyes again and surveying the brand new cut on his wrist. One to add to the collection growing all the way up his arm. The urge to continue, not to stop after _just one_, was stronger than ever and he itched to draw the blade over his arm one more time, just once. The sound of the metal door sliding open, however, put an end to his morbid ritual.

"Mark? You home?" Roger's gruff voice called through the silent loft. Mark inwardly cursed, rushing to clean off his knife before pocketing it, hastily moving to wash out his newest self-inflicted injury. He fumbled with the soap and placed it back on the counter, splashing water carelessly up to rinse and pulled his sleeve back down almost before the suds had washed away, heading out of the bathroom to greet his friend.

"Yeah, how was practice?" he asked, feigning nonchalance and pretending to zip up his fly. Nothing out of the ordinary, nothing out of place. He shoved down the guilt that rose up each time he faced his roommate after one of his "sessions"- it didn't make any sense. Why would Roger even care? He had his band, his life, and even without his Mimi and the flickering light of her candle he had inspiration, writing something new and spectacular every day. He didn't care about Mark. Mark shouldn't have to feel so guilty for deceiving him.

_It isn't deception. He never asked, and you never lied_, his mind whisper treacherously, and he had to agree. He plastered on a smile as fake as the bottle blonde color of Maureen's hair and ignored the ache he felt as the songwriter's eyes lit up in excitement, wide grin growing wider.

Roger, it seemed, had found his happiness, finally content with his life.

And as the scars crisscrossing Mark's wrist underneath his sweater sleeve suggested, unbeknownst to the oblivious bohemians, Mark had not.


	2. Happy Pills

**A/N: I wasn't planning on updating this again so soon, but I got a review and it just really made my night. So, I decided to be the fanfiction genie and grant their wish… I hope you enjoy the Mark abuse. Again. God, I'm so mean to the characters I love the most. There's got to be something wrong with that. ANYWAYS, reviews are still as awesome as ever!**

Disclaimer: _Cause everyyyythiiiiing is REEEEEEEEENT! Except the things I own, of course._

**Chapter Two: Happy Pills**

"God help me…" Mark muttered, inwardly shouting a colorful myriad of curses at himself for losing the only umbrella in the loft in the middle of April. It had been three months to the day since Mimi had passed away in that hospital bed and Roger was, predictably, moping in his room. He'd been almost alarmingly cheerful for the first month after Mimi's death, but he was withdrawing more and more and now… Well. It was possible, of course, that it was the rain that had him down but it made Mark nervous enough that he didn't really want to go out to lunch with Collins anymore as he'd promised.

It seems like all he does is dote on Roger, but then again that's nothing new. He's been doing it since April's death, before even, when Roger was in constant danger of overdose. And he doesn't really mind it, except times like these when he's anxious to get out of the stuffy loft and Roger is pulling a Roger on him and making it difficult.

He rummaged through his dresser drawers in a final attempt, rolling his eyes at his own sparse wardrobe. It was debatable, actually, whether or not the bulky black contraption would even fit inside his dresser but he'd run out of places to look and he was supposed to meet Collins at the café in half an hour. He'd hoped, earlier, that maybe the rain would clear before he had to leave but one glance at the dreary gray sheet over the window made it very clear that he was going to be drenched the minute he stepped out the door.

Great. Just great. _It must be Monday._

Well, there isn't anything to be done. He'd just have to brave the typical New York weather with his hood up in a futile attempt at shielding himself from an impending cold and make a run for it. Once, a year or two ago most likely, he remembers his sister telling him matter-of-factly over the phone that running in the rain only got you fifty percent wetter. That's just too bad, because he doesn't have a lot of time to go anyways.

As he's feeling into the corners of his boxer drawer pointlessly in the last vestiges of his sad attempt, Mark's hand brushes the smooth, cold plastic of a bottle that he was almost certain he'd thrown out the day he'd moved in. It's dusty and obviously untouched, but it still sends a thrill of anxiety through him as he pulls it out and stares at it, stomach doing curious flips.

_Fluoxetine hydrochloride._

Lovely. His past come back to haunt him again. Aggravated, he itched absently at his wrist beneath his sweater sleeve and stowed the bottle away, back where he'd found it- it wasn't doing anyone any harm there. Just as he shut the drawer brusquely and strode out of the room, tensing and bracing himself for the coming unpleasantness, he brushed Roger in the hall and found himself abruptly shoved back into the wall. Eyes flashing up to the guitarist's stoic expression, the filmmaker opened his mouth to ask what exactly had crawled up his ass and died when he realized what Roger had thrust into his hands.

"Hey- where did you find this?" he spluttered, glancing from the rickety black umbrella up to Roger's mesmerizing green eyes, to which the other man simply shrugged.

"Nowhere. Go, I know you're running late." Of course he did. Roger always seemed to know when things were going wrong with his roommate, like he had some sort of sixth sense. Mark wondered sometimes if it was simply that he knew him so well, or if maybe it was something more.

But if he continued on that train of thought he might start to sound crazy again, so he decides to leave it at that and simply nod, a look of eternal gratefulness crossing his face as he scurries to the door and pulls his jacket on along the way, halfway shrugged into the second sleeve as he exits and pulls the door shut behind him with the metallic grating noise that they've become so accustomed to. With that, he's off.

It's easy to keep his mind off of the bottle when he's struggling with his rusty old umbrella, trying to get the damn thing open. When he finally succeeds he's just grateful that it doesn't seem to have been eaten by moths- the last time he'd checked, most of the things in his closet were more holes than fabric. Not that he cared. He didn't care about the state of his own body much less what he wore over it- his only concern was that, without all of those long sleeves to fall back on, he might be exposed.

None of them were ever meant to find out anything about his little problem and he didn't plan on letting it slip. He wasn't that _stupid._

As he walks, though, the thoughts keep drifting past. They're so insistent sometimes, so pushy, almost like they were embodying the friends he could barely call friends anymore because they didn't even know him. Always poking and prodding and tormenting him with scraps of the past. The bottle, the hospital room, the therapist. Benny. It became a living nightmare that he couldn't shake off, left him trembling at night, curled into himself choking back the tears, pressing the metal firmly to his wrist to ward them off because anything is better than crying.

They aren't supposed to follow him in the daylight hours, but lately things have been slipping just a little bit. Enough for him, with his obsessive observational skills, to notice and begin to get nervous about. He was Mark, he was supposed to be strong, and he thought that he was but apparently not.

Strong people didn't shake when their friends weren't looking.

Strong people didn't have scars lacing up their arms like ugly red shoelaces.

He really needed to pull himself together before he got to the café, before Collins saw his expression and began the inquisition he dreaded so much. Every day was so full of fear, a tidal wave that rose uncontrollably in his chest every time somebody made eye contact with him, moved even the slightest bit-

_Do they know? Can they know? What am I going to say?_

It's irrational but then most of the things Mark thinks to himself these days are. He's a stoic person, a great liar by now, and it doesn't take much to school his expression. He can't, however, still his thundering heart as he approaches the familiar neon letters glowing against the gray-black backdrop of the city, above the sea of dark umbrellas and frowning faces. He knows better than to attempt the smile he's perfected, the aching quirk of the lips that keeps his friends happy, keeps him safe, keeps Roger from pulling up the sleeve of his sweater. That would be too conspicuous on such a rainy day.

If there was anything that Mark didn't want to be, it was noticeable. Once upon a time he'd wanted attention- way back, when Roger had been the earth and he had been the moon, hopelessly orbiting in an attempt to help however he could, never drawing as close as he'd like to be- and now he likes to think that he's grown out of that childish tendency.

He's Mark and he doesn't need anyone anymore. He just needs himself and the switchblade, a comforting presence, a constant weighing down his pocket just the slightest where he could touch it under the table to calm himself.

The scabs itch. Instead of the bottle he focuses on that, and although it becomes painful to resist he'd rather not start gushing blood when Collins was just inside the door he was pushing open, welcoming him with one of those blinding smiles, white against the dark of his face. In a way, Collins is sort of like a cat or a dog- he can't recall a time that he hadn't been happy to see him, but he also can't recall a time when any of the messages he sent his way had been truly received, understood. It was like they spoke different languages.

Mark was beginning to suspect that _he_ just spoke a different language. It was almost as though, out of everyone on the planet, he was the only one who understood his own dialect.

"You made it! Good man, Cohen," he was booming, wrapping his arms around the scrawnier man tightly before pulling away to look at him. _Now_ was the time to muster that smile he hadn't dared before, an ache that's becoming all too familiar growing in his chest, making it hard to breathe.

"I thought it would be rude to cancel without calling," murmured the filmmaker meekly, all the while his inner sarcasm raging, burning more brightly, more angrily than ever.

_About as rude as forcing someone to crawl through the rain for some lousy lunch._

Almost instantly he was stabbed in the gut with a deep feeling of regret, remorse, and he winced to Collins questioning look. _Fuck._ This was happening more and more often lately, a testament to just how awful a human being he was. No wonder Roger didn't want him, didn't even pay him any attention, when he was capable of thoughts like that.

Collins had obviously wanted to see him, or he wouldn't have trudged through the rain. He had a lot more to lose than Mark if he caught a cold. Mark really ought to be more grateful.

Somehow, though, as he slid into a booth opposite the anarchist Mark didn't feel at all comforted this. He felt as unwanted as ever and then paused to wonder why he was so depressed, so inconsolable, before Collins struck up conversation again.

"So, Marky," he teased, leaning back and crossing his arms behind his head. His eyes, though, were searching Mark's face and it was making him far too nervous to relax, crossing his legs and squirming across from him. He grimaced at the nickname but didn't have the energy to launch a protest, just waiting for the rest. "What have you been up to? I've been out of the loop."

_Maybe you shouldn't have expected the loop to stretch all the way to Michigan for you._

Actually, Mark reflects, it's probably a good thing that Collins hasn't been around. He's too sharp, too attentive- he's too similar to Mark that way, and he would surely have noticed his slow, graceless descent into insanity, into this neverending feeling of self-loathing. Just sitting this close to him, allowing his eyes to rake casually over him like he's some kind of lab specimen makes him feel naked. Where are his sleeves now? It seems like Collins can see right through them.

God, but it would be an awful time for Collins to develop super powers.

He's been silent for too long and now it's getting awkward. Cursing internally, he fumbles for words, for something other than the obvious. "Ah- nothing really. Filming. Getting bitched at by Roger…"

"How's he taking it?" The concern on Collins' face shifts subtly and to Mark's relief the limelight seems to have moved away from him, at least for the moment.

There's no way to misinterpret that. After April, Roger had overdosed almost six times before Mark had finally cut him off, given him the ultimatum- get clean or get out. None of them knew how many of those times Roger had been trying to off himself and how many were simply overzealous attempts to escape the maddening barrage of emotion that he'd always handled so poorly. Either way, the second dead girlfriend could easily have tipped the scales, and all of the bohemians had watched him carefully from the shadows for any abnormal behavior since the funeral.

"He's actually not so bad," Mark admitted, glancing down absently at the menu. He wasn't really hungry- he was rarely hungry anymore, which he would find more concerning if he gave a shit about anything. "The weather's got him down but other than that…"

"Got a new band?" The professor arches an eyebrow in slight amusement and the endearing gesture, something that he'd taught Mark a long time ago that to this day aggravated Roger to no end simply because he couldn't do it, makes Mark's stomach quiver with an odd nostalgia. It takes him several extra seconds to compose a response to the simple question, preoccupied with an unexplainable bout of nausea.

"Yeah… He doesn't like them much, but it gets him out, you know?"

There, that sounded natural. Satisfied with himself he looks away again, picking something random and cheap off of the menu and setting it aside, disinterested. His eyes stray out the window into the gray cityscape, the ducked heads and muted patters of rain, and finds it alarmingly descriptive of the way he feels most of the time now. Cold, bleak and vaguely downtrodden.

When he finally forces himself to look back at Collins, the other man is giving him another one of those speculative looks that he hates so much and he has to forcibly put a lid on his own hysterical assumptions that _yes, yes he knows, he knows and now they'll all know-!_

"W-what?" he asks nervously, trying to smile. It probably looks more like a grimace but it's too late to try and fix it now. Collins shakes his head, furrowing his eyebrows just slightly as though regarding an impossibly difficult equation and trying to figure out where to start.

"Mark… are you feeling alright? You seem kinda off," he asks, sounding so genuinely concerned that guilt claws at Mark's insides all over again. He forces a laugh, words slightly sharper than he'd intended as he shakes his head.

"I'm fine, Tom." He never really called him Tom, but this was a warning. Collins visibly backed down, nodding shortly and then mustered another smile as he tried to restart their stinted conversation.

Lunch is the short, awkward affair that Mark had expected it to be and as they part that ache in his chest returns. He doesn't know exactly what he wanted out of the exchange, but it wasn't what he got, and whatever it was he wanted he probably wasn't going to get so he might as well forget about it. The nausea had disappeared, replaced with a slightly uncomfortable hollow feeling deep in the pit of his stomach that he just doesn't want to think about.

The only other thing to think about, however, seems to be that bottle looming closer than he ever wanted it to be in his mind. _Fluoxetine hydrochloride._ He shudders to think it, his grip on the plastic handle of the umbrella tightens, but he forces himself to because anything is better than feeling empty, even this.

It was so long ago but it's still crystal clear. It's the pain that makes it sharp, he thinks to himself grimly, a morbid smile twisting his lips. He keeps his head down to keep anyone from seeing it- after all, he wouldn't want to disturb any of the other, less deranged inhabitants of the city. This was his problem. Pain was good for his memory, he was convinced, because all of the things he remembers are embedded in his mind with a nail of pure agony.

Benny was there, he remembers that. His mother, too, and his father was on the way. The paramedics had said later that he was lucky to be alive but he didn't _feel_ lucky, not at all. He felt like a failure. Still, he plastered on that smile that he'd grown so accustomed to wearing like a mask as the years worn on and insisted he was fine.

It wasn't like they could prove otherwise.

He takes the stairs one at a time, dragging his feet, shutting the umbrella with some difficulty. Now that he's thinking about it, now that he's almost home and he's going to have to face Roger again, force himself to act when he was never meant to be an actor, he doesn't want to stop.

The pills he remembers, too, but not as clearly. The pills were numb rather than painful and they made his memory foggy but he still manages to dredge up the memory to torture himself with.

He remembers waking up every morning and taking two with breakfast, swallowing them and making a face. Breakfast, they lectured him, was normal. They just wanted to help him get back to normal. He didn't have the heart to tell anyone that he didn't eat breakfast before the whole ordeal and normal was somewhere he'd never been, so he couldn't exactly go back to it. He just swallows and winces and gets on with his day, because that's what he should do, is expected to do, and hasn't he always been eager to please?

When he reaches the top of the stairs he opens the door and tries not to think about the key in his hand, because he's had enough of remembering for the day. The loft is silent, which comes as no surprise, but what he really wants to know is whether or not Roger is sleeping.

As much as he doesn't care, or doesn't think he does, he doesn't ever do it when Roger is home. He doesn't know what he would do if his roommate walked in on that gory little secret.

Slowly, cautiously, he sets down his umbrella and pads down the hall, searching for Roger's skinny figure, straining to hear the sounds of the poorly tuned acoustic but there's nothing. Peeking into his room he's relieved to find him lying in bed, presumably asleep- Roger never sleeps during the day anymore, not since withdrawal, but Mark seems to have been correct about his assumption that the guitarist isn't feeling well.

He doesn't have time to be worried about whether or not Roger is really asleep, or whether or not he's getting sick- right now everything feels too bright and too real and he reaches into his pocket for the soothing metal, making for the bathroom and shutting the door tightly behind him.

It was all too much, the past and the present and the desolate future stretching before him, and he doesn't have the pills to make him numb so he'll settle for pain.

If pain can make him remember, it can also make him forget.


	3. A Slip of the Hand

**A/N: Ugh writer's block go AWAY… This story gives me so many feels. I'm really enjoying writing it, I hope you're all enjoying reading it still. Whoever you may be. Anyways, more darkness, more cutting, etcetera etcetera, the same old warnings. Read it and weep!**

Disclaimer: _If RENT were mine, Mark would probably be dead by now- or seated comfortably on Roger's- *censor*._

**Chapter Three: A Slip of the Hand**

Once in a while, Mark likes to stop and count the scars on his wrists. There's a lot of them and it goes without saying that once he commits himself to the task, it becomes an all-day project- one that requires him to hermit away in his room by himself and curl up in bed, or on the floor beside it, arm held comfortably out before him as he traces them with his fingers and murmurs the numbers under his breath. For a few hours he disappears off of the face of the Earth and returns, fine and dandy as ever, to his life to ignore the worried, suspicious glances of his roommate.

It's one of those days. Roger is out, and Mark is taking full advantage. He supposes that it's obsessive and that it should probably concern him more that something so pointless and unhealthy can consume him for entire days, huge chunks of his life, but he's too focused on the counting to care.

The filmmaker's fingers smoothed down his arm, morbidly fascinated by the raised lines, the scaly feeling of them, and the way that if he applied just the right amount of pressure he felt like he was burning. It's hard to resist picking at the scabs, watching the blood well up all over again- if he does it, though, it will only take them longer to heal. Every breath he takes is another line, his blue eyes flickering over the crisscrossing latticework of his arm.

It's not disturbing, not really. He doesn't know why everyone always thinks that it is. When it comes down to it they're lines. They're art. He'd always known he was an artist at heart, and since he was a shitty filmmaker this must be his calling. Body art, in blood instead of ink. He could live with that.

Roger would appreciate it if Roger paid him any attention at all lately. Not that he blames him. Some small, bitter part of him blames him but he's ignoring it, at least for now. At least until it all becomes overwhelming again and he ends up taking the blade to his wrist, and he has to count them all over again even though he's sure he knows the number. Mark has grown accustomed to this sickly cycle of his and he's strangely content. Not quite alive and not quite dead, either. If only he could reach that perfect state of numbness, everything would be fine...

When he gets to two hundred he stops to let that sink in, staring at the exact place he'd stopped. There's more still to go- the last time he'd counted it had been two hundred and thirty four- but it still seems like an awful lot. Hadn't he just started doing this...? He's not even counted the ones that faded, the oldest, the ones that had hurt the most.

Now it barely hurts at all.

More. He needs more and more and vaguely he recognizes it just by the depth of the most recent additions, the angry scarlet that stares back at him and refuses to fade away.

Red, he thinks, is entirely appropriate. Red is angry. Pink is romantic but red is blood, red is _rage_ at everyone and everything and violence and war and everything Mark feels, every day beneath the mask. What he used to conceal behind the lens stays trapped in his chest now, growing larger, mutating into something grotesque and unlovable.

_Just like me..._

He shakes his head, refocusing his eyes on the last slash halfway down his arm. It glares at him, accusing and comforting at the same time and he loves the confused way his gut twists in response to the conflict as much as he hates it. His life is one big series of contradictions, hypocrisy at it's finest.

And he wonders why he hates himself.

_No. I know._

But he doesn't just hate himself. He hates everyone. He hates everything. Even Roger- especially Roger- except Roger.

Suddenly, he itches for his knife again.

Fuck. He's not even done counting. He can't start a new row until he's sure, until he's double-checked, and God there's something wrong with him and that just makes him want to open his veins even more.

His eyes light on the pilfered pocketknife that has become his best friend, lying oh-so-innocently on the nightstand just a foot from his hand. Everything about it invites him and he finds himself reaching for it before he makes a conscious decision. It doesn't matter. He knows which will win in the end, which always wins.

All of this thinking is hurting his head, bringing those awful thoughts back. Mark would much rather scar his arms than his mind.

He's barely flicked it open before he hears the front door slam and Roger curse under his breath. The noise startles him; his arms stings and he glances down, glasses slipping down his nose, to find that he's gashed his wrist and blood is bubbling from the wound at an already alarming rate. "Shit." Swallowing down the initial muted panic the sight triggers he swings his legs out of bed, clamping his opposite hand over the fresh cut so tightly his knuckles turn white. Crimson wells between his fingers, sickening, and his gag reflex decides to make an appearance so strongly that he nearly blacks out. Oh, fuck. He's done it now.

_Way to go, Cohen. I hope you fucking bleed out on the bathroom floor. Just like A-_

He puts a stop to the thought before it can even fully form, shaking his head violently to clear it and staggering for the door. Bathroom. Sink. Water. Soap. He just needs to make it to the goddamn bathroom and he'll worry about everything else later. Awkwardly, he manages to turn the knob with his elbows and toes the door open with one foot, slipping out and bee-lining for the bathroom. Roger molds himself to the wall as Mark shoves past, furrowing his eyebrows.

"Hey- what the fuck are you doing?"

"Bathroom," Mark replies shortly. He can regret it later- right now, he's rediscovered his survival instinct and it's just about choking him. Years of desperation and dark clouds and a pill bottle hidden in the back of his dresser, all but forgotten, have been wiped away by the shock of maroon that's begun seeping down to stain his rolled-up sleeve, uncontrollable. Shitshitshit. He's going to need stitches.

How is he ever going to keep this from Roger now?

Well. He's certainly fucked up this time, hasn't he?

Irrationally, he wonders if this is what he gets for cutting before counting. It's fleeting, but it's there.

His future therapist is going to have so much _fun_ picking that one apart. Assuming he lives that long. And judging by the state of his arm, at least at the moment, he might not even see tomorrow. Roger's going to be so pissed if he really does go the same way as April. Mark decides then and there that if he dies, he'll have the decency to do it outside of the tub. Maybe he'll even try to clean up some of his mess before it all fades to black.

He's getting ahead of himself again. Stop. Think.

Right, wash it out. That first.

He pries his fingers away one at a time, as if that will make it better. The blood is flowing at the same rate either way, freely dripping down his arm in thinning lines, down to the crease of his elbow, droplets splattering the floor, the counter, into the sink. Don't panic. Don't panic... He uses his stained hand to twist the tap, icy water gushing out over his wrist. The water pinks immediately. He wants to be sick.

Close your eyes. Deep breaths, come on... He leans heavily against the counter, hardly able to remember a time that he'd been quite this high strung. Is he dizzy from blood loss or from the sight of it? Both? He sincerely hopes that Roger isn't listening outside of the door. His breathing is shallow, his pulse quick and frightened like a rabbit's. Calm is an impossibility.

Predictably, Roger knocks less than politely moments after the thought races through his mind. "Mark, what the _hell?_" It's funny because if he wasn't so busy freaking out over his arm he would be squirming over the note of grudging concern in Roger's voice. "Are you dying or what?"

Maybe. "I'm fine." It's a miracle that his voice doesn't shake, doesn't even jump an octave. Roger broods silently on the other side and he can imagine those green eyes boring holes into the wood, suspicious. Not _now_, please... "Just needed- um-"

"Yeah, whatever," Roger grumbles, clearly not in the mood for conversation. Mark hears the rustle of his jacket as he turns and stomps off down the hallway, fuming. He must not be in a good mood, then. Great. What happened this time?

Wait. Arm. Right. _Damn_ that's a lot of blood. He really doesn't have the money for an ER visit right now, either. If he's honest, he _never_ has the money for an ER visit. None of them do. He doesn't even have a fucking job, how is he going to pay for this?

Roger is going to kill him if he doesn't die.

Shakily, he rubs the blood from the wound under the stinging cold of the water and examines it. It's long, it's deep. It's vertical on a plane of horizontal slashes, a perpendicular fuckup of a line right along his vein. It's not something that can be fixed with a dab of Neosporin and a Winnie the Pooh band-aid from the dusty box in the medicine cabinet. Mark has never in his life wanted to punch himself in the face more.

The free clinic. It's his only option. But it could be hours until he gets in... Who even knew if he would make it down the street before collapsing? What if Roger caught him before he could even leave the loft? He's fucked, he's so fucked, he hasn't gotten laid in an immeasurable amount of time and yet he's so fucking fucked and the profanity has started to blur in his head, some kind of twisted coping mechanism. All he has to do is make it out, make it there. The clinic. It's free and it's discreet. As for Roger, who is he kidding? Roger doesn't care what he does. He's a grown man. Nevermind if he still feels like a lonely, broken teenager in a hospital bed in Scarsdale.

He'll make a run for it, he decides. The wound still dribbles down his arm and he wipes as much away as he can, grabbing at the toilet paper and unrolling an enormous wad of it to press over the gaping laceration. This is going to take a whole lot of good luck and some coordination that he doesn't have at the best of times.

"I can do this," he breathes to himself. That negative little cloud in the back of his mind snorts scornfully and he takes a deep breath, focusing on the door handle.

Here goes.

**MRMRMRMRMRMRMRMR**

Somehow Mark drags himself back to the loft three hours later with his wrist wrapped in gauze, tired and paler than he's ever been. He's not thinking of Roger now. The fine details of the graffiti on the walls of the stairwell have blurred in his vision- blood loss, they'd warned him. Lie down. Take a cab. But Mark doesn't have money for a cab and Roger is probably wondering where he's been. Even if he's not, he doesn't mind a little walking. It's a lot less suspicious, and that's what sells him.

His wrist is throbbing. He can just keep ignoring that as well.

Fingers shaking almost violently, he twists the key in the lock and nudges the door open. There's not enough energy in his body to give it a real shove. He stumbles inside, dizzy and wanting to curl up on the floor and just cry. He's so fucking tired. Everything hurts, his arm and his head and his feet. They hadn't given him any painkillers but he'd been sorely tempted to ask.

They'd probably have thought he was a junkie if he had. That's how it is in the East Village. He's starting to rethink it himself; if everyone is doing it, and if any of them were half as miserable as him to begin with, then maybe he's just been playing stubborn all along.

Sometimes Mark is jealous of Roger's needles and April's bloody arms. His own scars itch beneath the bandaging, burning brightly. The nurse had said nothing about the state of his arms as she'd tended to the fresh wound and he's glad, so very glad that he hadn't gone to a real hospital. They would just have locked him up. Mark doesn't have the time or the patience or the state of mind for that. He'd be off his rocker on the first day.

Isn't he already crazy?

He can see into his room from here, all the way down the hallway. It seems so far away right now but he's prepared to traverse it if it means unconsciousness. Mark spends the majority of his time wishing he could crawl back into his bed and sleep these thoughts away, and today he has an excuse. As he walks, unsteady and almost drunken on his feet, he wonders if Collins could tell. If Roger could. Can anyone see through him? He feels transparent. Some people, though, they only see their reflection in the glass when they should be looking through. Mark's not worth looking through it anyways.

He's ready to collapse into bed and pass the fuck out but when he gets there Roger is lying out, presumably waiting for his return, across his squeaky mattress. The tip of the knife that Mark belatedly realizes he'd forgotten in the sheets pokes at his thumb as he toys with it and the filmmaker's blood runs cold. It doesn't matter _what _Roger is doing in his bed, he's there and he might as well know. There's blood on the floor, blood on the sheets. Not a lot of it. But it's there and Roger's not stupid, Roger can see when he's looking.

All he can think is that they don't have the money, not for the psych ward. He's not going back.

"Hmmm?" The guitarist sits up with a grunt as soon as he recognizes Mark's presence, setting the knife down. "Hey. Where'd you get this? I was wondering where it went. Hey- dude, what the fuck, are you alright?"

The genuine worry in his voice startles him, makes him stand a little straighter. Does he really look that awful? He hasn't been paying attention but he probably does, he's exhausted and hurting and fuck. Roger's going to figure it out if he doesn't get it together. "Fine... I- found it." He should have had a better excuse than that but he doesn't even care anymore. He just wants his bed and Roger is occupying his space, reaching for the bulkier arm.  
"Don't-"

"What did you do?" It's probably not an accusation but Mark takes it as one, narrowing his eyes.

"It's just a little cut. I'm fine," he repeats a bit more forcefully. Roger looks taken aback and then offended, withdrawing his hand. Normally, Mark would probably get that desperate sinking feeling that he gets whenever he's disappointed one of his friends- now, though, he stands his ground, trembling. "Why are you in my room?"

"You ran out of here like there was a fire." The rocker is definitely irritated with him now. Despite everything it still makes Mark cringe inside, and he promises himself that he'll make up for it in blood later. "There was blood all over the bathroom- are you going to tell me what happened or do I have to force you?"

There was a time when Mark would have been legitimately afraid of that poorly veiled threat. He glares, feeling uncharacteristically hostile. Maybe it's just because he's so sick of feeling this way and Roger is the only person around that he can take it out on. Or maybe he's just an asshole. The second one seems more likely, and more appealing.

"I said I'm fine. Go away." He swallows down another wave of nausea at the thought of Roger piecing it together. Stupid, stupid, he'd left behind so much evidence... "I'm just- I'm tired." His conviction is dwindling and he can feel the return of the needy, clingy part of him that always rears its head when Roger is around. The words blurt from his mouth uncontrollably, pathetic. "How was your day?"

Roger looks at him like he wants to punch him. For some unknown reason he doesn't and Mark is overwhelmingly grateful for that. "Brian up and fucking quit, and now we don't have a drummer. Our gig is this Friday. I don't have time to go look for a new one." He closes his eyes and sighs, heaving himself off of Mark's bed with an aura of repressed rage darkly surrounding him, making Mark shrink away as he brushes past to let him to his bed. The knife is slipped into his pocket- the filmmaker wants to protest before he realizes that it's _Roger's knife_ in the first place and he can't afford any more slip ups today. He clamps his mouth shut, just watching him trudge away, brooding in that petulant, attractive way of his. "Fine, take a fucking nap. And then wash the damn sink out. With bleach."

With that, the door slams shut behind him. Mark sways on the spot, nearly overcome with helpless emotion and an ache in his chest that's only growing deeper. Roger is normally snarky but this is a new level. He supposes that it's just frustration, understandable if unpleasant, but at the moment Mark is taking everything very personally and it hurts just to think about that loathing expression on his friend's face.

He never did finish counting...

Licking his dry lips, Mark sits heavily on the bed and stares at the door, tears welling miserably in his eyes now that he's alone. It's never going to end.

Why do people say that things will get better if they only get worse?


End file.
